


Another Time, Another Place

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Hero Worship, M/M, Sid Hates Losing, Situational (Mild) Dubcon, Smut, Winner's Room (Hockey RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 10:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18548167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: They could be good together. Mat knows that; the chemistry he and Sid had at the All-Star Game (on and off the ice) wasn't a fluke.The winner's room seems like the perfect time for Mat to make his move and turn this silly crush into something more.





	Another Time, Another Place

Maybe it’s a little anticlimactic to say, but Mat _knew_ after game three that this is how it was going to end: a sweep, right here in Pittsburgh amongst the hushed crowd, the screams of his teammates loud in his ears as they celebrate. He could see it in the Pens’ body language, the scowls on their faces, the way some of their core group was obviously too hurt to be effective that they would not be coming back. He could see it in his own team, the way Lehner was dialed in, the energy they brought to the rink, the confidence on their bench that didn’t exist on the other side of the ice. It was their series to take, and take it they did.

His first playoff series win is a whirlwind. There’s the celebration, magnified times a hundred from what it was in the regular season, then something new - the handshake line - and Sid offers him what sounds like a sincere congratulations and tells him that he did a great job and go win it all and his heart swells with pride and a fierce joy, because _Sidney Crosby_ is recognizing him and what he’s done. More celebration in the locker room (the visiting locker room, and Mat shares a brief thought that he wishes they were home in front of their fans, but they have another round and another and hopefully _another_ to do that) and then Trotz is reminding them they still have work to do and to not get too excited, and the media moves in.

In another new twist, the locker room doesn’t empty after the showers. The media heads off and then it’s just the team, sitting around in their game day suits waiting for what’s next. A few guys are on the phone with their wives, Tito’s obviously composing some sort of Insta story, and Mat just sits at his stall and watches the equipment guys bustle around the room. His job is done now, he knows he’ll play no part in this next bit, so he lets himself relax and bask in the win. He can get focused again tomorrow; tonight, he’ll enjoy it.

“First star to you, Big Bob,” Anders Lee tells Lehner as the locker room hoots and cheers. “Your choice.”

Robin - even relaxed back in his stall - still looks focused, and he gives a sharp smile at Anders’ declaration. “Tempting,” he says. “I’ve never gotten choice before.”

“Don’t pretend like you’re not gonna do the goalie thing and pick Murray,” Komarov teases. “Kid’s weird lookin’ though, I gotta say.”

“I _would_ pick Matt,” Robin admits. “But I’m going to defer my choice.”

“Are you sure?” Anders says. “I mean, you can pick who to give choice to, but…”

“Right, nobody ever defers, you never know when you’re gonna get it again.” Robin waves his hand. “Look boys, I don’t want any _distractions_ right now, and getting the choice is sure as hell pretty distracting in my mind. Barzy, why don’t you take it? You can finally indulge that crush of yours.”

Mat startles; of all the things he expected to come out of Robin’s mouth, him being handed the _choice_ was about the last thing. “Wha - huh?” he blurts out, and the room laughs.

“Between his two All-Star husbands he’s _obviously_ going to pick Letang,” Tito teases. “He’s way better looking - duh, look where he’s from - and besides, nothing beats a French-Canadian in bed.”

“That’s not what your girlfriend told me,” Anders smirks. “Anyway shut up, you _know_ who he’s gonna choose. Barzy?”

Mat lets the chirps roll off his back, still stunned and feeling maybe a touch nauseous at the choice in front of him. He never expected to make this decision tonight, even though he _dreamt_ of the possibilities, jerking off in his bed after game two when it became very clear the team had a great chance to actually win the series. He fantasized about putting up an amazing series-clinching performance, scoring a hat trick, holding his head high in the winner’s room, and Sid would look at him with _respect_ and get on his knees willingly. Sidney Crosby, his idol, his crush, his _god,_ submitting with the poise and honor that the tradition called for, all for Mat.

And now that choice is in front of him, and he finds himself unexpectedly terrified.

It would be easy to pick Letang, because Kris is sure to be angry, and Mat can do angry sex with a guy he doesn’t have feelings for. They’d tear each other apart in that room and it would probably be the best sex of Mat’s life. Not to mention that there’s a number of young guys on the Pens as well, good looking guys that would give him an easy and relaxing lay - Aston-Reese, McCann, Dumoulin, Rust - ones that he’d be able to order to suck his dick with confidence and enjoy himself without any pressure.

But they’re not Sid. There’s nobody like Sid, but the idea of Sid in the winner’s room, under his control...there’s a lot of pressure there. Does he have enough energy left to not embarrass himself in bed? Can he make it _good_ for Sid? God, he wants to make it good for Sid, because he’s always had a silly crush on Crosby in the way that you always love your heroes. Since the All-Star Game, that crush has grown to obnoxious proportions, because Mat can’t get out of his head the way Sid looked at him that weekend, the way they worked their magic together on the ice, that dinner they shared the last night with Sid pressed close and giggling at his dumb jokes. Mat was a first round pick, he’s known for years that he’s good enough to play in this league, but skating next to Sid and _dominating_ next to him was maybe the first time that all traces of doubt that ever lingered were erased. Mat’s not just an NHLer, he’s fucking good, and he knows it.

And he could be good with Sid. Together. He knows that too.

“Uh, earth to fucking Barzy,” Anders says, snapping his fingers, and Mat takes a deep breath and nods.

“Sid. It’s Sid.”

The team erupts into cheers, and Anders laughs. “Ooh, already on a first name basis with Crosby, he’ll love that,” he says. “Alright, I’ll confirm your choice with the suits. Hey, everyone else can fuck off outta here, eh?”

Mat endures a fresh round of teasing and nudges and hair ruffles (“not the fucking hair, he’s gotta look good for _Sid,”_ Tito shrieks at Ebs) and then it’s just Anders quietly talking to a league official and Tom Kuhnhackl, who lingers behind nervously. Belatedly, Mat remembers he was a Penguin last year. “Knuckles?” he asks, and Tom gives him a half-smile.

“Barzy,” he says. “Hey, uh. Look, I know it’s your reward, and you can do what you want, but um...I mean, Sid’s a good guy, and...shit. I know this is inappropriate…”

“I won’t hurt him, Tommy,” Mat says, eyes going wide. “I _wouldn’t.”_

Tom visibly relaxes, slumping down a little. “I figured you wouldn’t,” he says. “I just...had to say something. Between you and me, uh...look I wasn’t really privy to Sid’s history, but just the way some of the guys acted last year after we lost, they expected the worst for him. I think he’s been hurt before. I just didn’t want to see it happen again. I know I’m not his teammate anymore. But.”

“He’s an amazing guy, Tommy,” Mat says, and Tom nods. “I get it. Nothing to worry about, man.”

“Thanks bud,” Tom says, and then he’s out the door and Anders is introducing him to some league official, a petite woman whose name Mat forgets immediately. She’s a bustle of paperwork, reminding him about the NDA they all sign in their contracts about the winner’s room and going over the rules. No injuries, no marks, and Crosby’s safeword is to be respected at all times. “It’s ‘shutout’,” she tells him, and that seems sort of fitting, although Mat can’t imagine any scenario where Sid would have to use it with him. “Do you have anything you’re bringing?”

“Uh…” Mat’s mind races. Was he supposed to bring a condom?

“Lube and condoms are already in the room,” she says, as if reading his mind. “I'm talking about toys, outfits, collars, those kinds of things. If you’re bringing anything like that, I’ll need to inspect them first.”

“Oh my God,” Mat blurts, because - _collars_ \- but he shakes his head quickly. “No, no, nothing.”

“Alright,” she says, then: “He’s waiting for you,” which makes Mat’s stomach flop uncomfortably as she leads him out of the locker room and down the hallway, pausing in front of a closed door. “No more than two hours, please,” she says, and then she’s gone.

Mat pauses to consider the closed door. He’s never seen the winner’s room in Barclays, which is also used by the Nets and the occasional rock star as a convenient place to fuck groupies, so he’s not sure what to expect inside here at PPG. No time like the present, though, so he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

He half expects the room to smell like sex - there have been years and years of winner’s choice in this room - but instead it’s a clean and almost clinical scent, like it’s been disinfected all to hell. There’s a huge bed in the room, no blankets, but soft looking sheets with what appears to be bed protectors underneath. There are cabinets on the walls where Mat can see pillows and blankets and even what looks like pajamas (for cuddling afterwards?) and right there on the bedside table are all types of lubes and condoms.

And there is Sid himself, standing next to the bed, arms folded and eyebrows quirked up in surprise at Mat. He’s not the same Sid from the All-Star Game. That Sid was clean shaven, with an easy smile and a quick compliment. This Sid here in front of him still has the early stages of a playoff beard, and he is not smiling. Mat thinks perhaps there won’t be too many compliments, either.

“Did you expect Robin?” he asks Sid, who nods silently. The quiet is unnerving Mat, making him a little jittery, and he talks to cover up the awkwardness. “It was him, but uh, he didn’t want it. So he gave it to me. And I chose you, because - I mean like of _course_ I chose you - “

“What do you want?” Sid interrupts, and his tone isn’t _mean,_ but it’s certainly not friendly. He sounds professionally chilly. “If it’s alright with you, there are some guys that I’d really like to check on tonight. The sooner we get started, the sooner I can be with them.”

Mat swallows loudly; of course Sid would want to be with his team. He’s the _captain,_ that’s what they do. It’s disappointing, maybe, but not unexpected. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a great answer for Sid. He just knows what he sees in his dreams, in those jerk off sessions where Sid is nestled between his legs, holding Mat down to the bed to keep him from shaking right out of skin while Sid pushes inside him, whispering how wonderful he is, how he wishes they played on the same team together. The beautiful _ache_ of those famous thighs fucking in and out, slow and gentle until Mat begs for it.

“Uh,” Mat says, instead of saying any of that.

Sid’s expression goes a little softer, like he’s realizing something, and Mat suddenly remembers Knuckles’ words. _I think he’s been hurt before._ “Most guys know what they want when they get here,” Sid explains gently.

Mat sucks in a deep breath. “I’m not here to _hurt_ you,” he says quickly. “God, I’d never. I don’t know what other teams have done, but we’re - I’m - I’m not like that. Just, just, it’s _you,_ and I couldn’t pick anyone else.”

Sid smiles, a humorless thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m quite a prize, so I’ve been told.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s fine.” Sid’s hands go to his throat, thumb brushing the knot of the tie. “Do you want me to undress?”

“Um, yes. Slowly,” Mat says before he can think about it, and then kicks himself over the command, and then kicks himself _again_ because this is what he’s supposed to do; give commands. He’s in charge here.

Sid takes the order very literally, and it’s almost fascinating to watch how slow he goes, deft fingers loosening and then discarding his tie. The buttons of his dress shirt get pushed through their buttonholes very, very slowly, and the way he pulls the loops from his shoelaces…

It’s silly, but even in this, Mat loves watching him work. The grace and quiet confidence he exudes even in the face of this punishment is intoxicating. Mat’s seen him naked before - at the ASG, although he was very careful not to look, not any more than what would be proper. He allows himself to look now, and the word is cliche, but he can’t think of anything besides _thick_ to describe Sid. His thighs and ass and lower body are all infamous, but up top - he’s not ripped, not the six-pack some guys are so proud of, but he’s solid. His dick hangs limp, not a shred of interest, amongst a tangle of body hair, shocking in how wild it is compared to the rest of his body.

He realizes he’s staring, and Sid is watching him right back, waiting for his next order, and - fuck, he doesn’t know what he wants next, so as always his mouth fills the silence while he tries to figure it out. “I just want to tell you that you had a hell of a series,” Mat says, and he can tell instantly it’s the wrong thing to say with the way Sid’s eyes go dark, but he keeps going. “If it was anyone but Robin in net, it might have been a different story. You’re still the best in the game, and it was an honor to - “

Sid, for the second time that evening, interrupts him. “Don’t,” he says. “You don’t need to do this. I don’t _want_ you to do this. Just tell me what’s next.”

“Uh. Um...suck my dick?”

Sid’s eyes travel the length of his body and back up, and of course - Mat is still fully clothed, so this isn’t an order he can comply with. Fuck, this isn’t going the way Mat had all planned, and he runs a hand through his hair, a little frustrated. “Shit. I - look, Sid, I just want this to be good for you. Okay?”

Sid scoffs, his impassive front dropping for just a moment. “But it won’t be,” he says. “It _can’t_ be. Because I’ve just let my team down through four games, _four games,_ I didn’t do enough to win us even a single one. And now as a result of that I’m here, having to give myself up to you, and I don’t know which is worse: this, or seeing the look on my guys’ faces in that room, knowing that I let them down. If you wanted this to be good…” Sid shakes his head, a little confused. “Why would you want this to be good? It’s not supposed to be good. Not for me.”

“But I like you,” Mat says softly. “At the All-Star Game...we had something special. I wanted to try and see if...look, I guess it was dumb.”

Sid pinches the bridge of his nose, looking briefly exasperated, but then it’s gone, replaced again by his professional and distant facade. “This isn’t the All-Star Game,” he says. “But we’re here now, and you have a reward owed to you. May I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Take off your clothes, and come sit next to me,” Sid says, setting himself down on the bed; then, almost as an afterthought: “if you want,” like he remembers he’s not supposed to be running the show.

That sounds like as good of a plan as any, so Mat does that, undressing quickly, Sid’s gaze respectfully averted away which strikes Mat as a little ridiculous being that they’re going to be _fucking_ soon. He gingerly sits down next to Sid, who finally turns his way. “You could ask me to blow you,” he says, “and then put me on my knees and fuck me.”

“Oh, uh. Um. Yeah,” Mat fumbles, because all his fantasies have had _Sid_ fucking him, but that’s not how this goes, not how it’s supposed to happen. Sid picks up on it fast.

“It’s tradition,” he says. “As much for you as for me. If anyone asks…”

“I get it.” It’s not like it’s going to be an _imposition_ to fuck Sid, although he’s disappointed, because he suspects he may never get another chance like this again, not with Sid at least. “I was hoping I could blow _you,_ though. Unless that’s...y’know...another ‘tradition’ thing.”

Sid blinks a few times. “It’s unusual,” he admits. “But not unheard of.”

“So can I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Lay back on the bed,” Mat says, putting a firm tone in it, wanting to feel like maybe he’s finally in control. Sid does as he asks, settling back against the pillow, new and fluffy. “Spread your legs. Relax.” Sid follows the first order easily, the second perhaps not as much.

When Mat cups Sid’s cock in his hands, he gets a thrill of anticipation down his spine, because it hits him - he’s got Sidney Crosby, _Sidney fucking Crosby,_ naked and underneath him, and maybe it’s not the aching want that he dreamed about from Sid, but he’ll take it. Sid’s dick feels weighty and _real_ in his palm and he wants more than anything to lick it, and then he remembers he’s in charge so he does, from root to tip.

Sid doesn’t make a noise until Mat gets his lips around the head, just a small little huffing breath but it’s something, so he keeps it up, mouthing wetly. Despite his insistence on not enjoying it, Sid is chubbing up, his body responding to the physical sensations as Mat moves further down the shaft. He gives pretty good blowjobs, he knows that, and now - well, Sid will know it too.

He can feel Sid squirming underneath him when he gets a rhythm going, almost like he’s struggling to stay still, so Mat pulls off and presses a palm to his stomach. “You’re holding back,” he says flatly, not a question.

“Yes,” Sid says, but doesn’t offer an explanation, so Mat will have to wring it out of him.

“Why?”

“This is...as much my punishment as your reward. My punishment for failure. It doesn’t seem right to enjoy it.”

So Sid _is_ enjoying the blowjob, his triumphant brain crows, and he asks, “You’ve never enjoyed it with anyone else?”

“No.” Mat can tell by Sid’s expression that’s perhaps not _entirely_ true.

“Well I want you to enjoy it. I _order_ you to enjoy it.”

Sid smirks, fleetingly, so fast Mat’s not sure it was there. “It doesn’t really work like that.”

“You said it yourself, I’m in charge. At least _try?”_

“I’ll try,” Sid acquiesces, and when Mat goes back down on him the struggle is gone. Sid’s still not loud, but every time Mat does something good Sid lets out of a soft little _huh_ that might be the hottest thing he’s ever heard. He wants Sid to grab his hair, fuck into his mouth, but he’s already testing his luck with just the blowjob, so he doesn’t say anything.

Sid’s voice is high and thin when he speaks next. “You should stop,” he says. “Unless you want me to finish.”

Mat pulls off, wiping a stray bit of saliva from his mouth; he’s hard as well, maybe even just as turned on as Sid appears to be, and he hasn’t even been touched. “I do. But not like this.” He glances over at the table, filled with packets of lube in every color, brands he’s never even heard of and old familiars mixed together. “Do you have a favorite?”

Sid fixes him with a look - an _are-you-fucking-kidding-me_ sort of look - so Mat grabs one of his old standbys, a brand he knows, and regards the scene in front of him. Sid’s still on his back, dick laying hard against his stomach, just a little softer than he was during the blowjob. His legs are spread (Mat wonders what it will feel like with those thighs clenched around him) and his generous ass hides the hole, so Mat swipes a thumb between his cheeks to feel it, tight and clenching at the touch. “Don’t worry,” Mat tells him, stroking his thumb along the rim. “I won’t do anything until you’re ready.”

“I know,” Sid says softly, staring up at the ceiling, and spreads his legs a little wider, an obvious signal for Mat to get to it.

He does, but he takes his time with it, partly because he doesn’t want to cause Sid any pain but partly because he can. By the time he’s got three fingers in Sid, there’s a light sheen of sweat smeared through the stubble on Sid’s upper lip, and his eyes look a little crazed, even though he never begs or asks for more of anything. There’s a spot inside of him that makes him draw a sharp breath or sometimes even moan quietly, and Mat tries to memorize it, wants to hit it over and over again when he’s fucking Sid.

Sid finally breaks with a quiet, “please,” and Mat’s not sure if he’s begging for this to be over or begging because he wants Mat, but he pretends it’s the latter as he rolls on a condom, strokes a little more lube onto himself. He’s suddenly struck by how tired he is, the bone-deep exhaustion of a playoff game hitting him in waves, but he resolves to hold on, show Sid how good he is, how good _they_ could be.

“C’mon,” Sid murmurs, not waiting for Mat’s question whether he’s ready or not.

“I think I’m supposed to order you onto your knees,” Mat says, because if he looks into Sid’s eyes while they’re fucking and sees anger or sadness - or worse, _disinterest_ \- well, it’s all going to go to hell.

He grabs a few more pillows to help prop Sid’s hips up, and god does he look _obscene_ like this, chest pressed to the bed, back arched, his marvelous ass high in the air, ready and waiting. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he says, and lines himself up. Sid grunts, and Mat’s not sure if it’s a response to his words or the slow push inside of him.

“Don’t - not slow,” Sid pants, breath already coming faster. “Take it, Barzal. Take what’s yours.”

Those words, in another situation, might shame Mat a little; he’s never been a possessive guy, and Sid has made it clear he’s here under obligation only. Even the use of his last name is dismissive, distant. So he _should_ feel a little bad, but instead those words crawl up his spine, hot and urgent, _take what’s yours,_ and he does.

Mat digs his fingers into Sid’s hips as he thrusts, the drag of his dick inside Sid molten even through the condom, and it’s wonderful, _Sid’s_ wonderful, everything Mat ever thought he’d be. Sid’s hair is fluffy and wild in the back, and Mat gets the urge to sink his fingers in and yank, and then he remembers he’s allowed to do that. Sid arches back with a ragged cry as Mat grabs his hair, and then Mat hits that spot inside him and he cries out again and it’s almost all too much. “Yeah,” Mat grunts, and then Sid curses brokenly, the sound yanked out of him by another one of Mat’s deep thrusts and then it _is_ too much, and he’s fucking his way through his orgasm.

He realizes that he’s still clutching Sid’s hair, so he lets it go, allows Sid to slump his chest back to the bed. Mat gets a hand under him and he’s still hard, and Sid makes a sound that almost sounds like a protest when Mat starts jerking him off, but his body betrays him, thrusting into the grip. When Sid comes, he does so silently, face buried in the sheets.

Mat pulls out, collapses back on the bed, and now the guilt comes as he watches Sid’s shoulders slump. “Thank you,” he whispers. “You can go now. If...if you want.”

Sid nods, pushing himself off the bed with a little wince, running his hands through his hair to try and tame it down a little from where it’s been pulled. He dresses mechanically, much faster than he took the clothes off, and it’s only while he’s tying his shoelaces that Mat realizes they never even kissed. “Wait,” he says, and Sid looks up sharply, frowning.

“What?”

“I, uh - I want to - I’d really like to kiss you.”

“Mat.” Sid straightens up with a sigh, and it’s not lost to Mat that Sid is using his first name, now. “You think you have some sort of feelings for me, don’t you?”

“There’s no ‘I think’ about it,” Mat says, even as his cheeks turn red with the blush, a little embarrassed. “I had a great time with you at the All-Star Game. And you can’t pretend you didn’t have fun, either. Think about all the time we spent together. That dinner we had the last night, just you and me.” At the time, Mat had prayed that maybe, just maybe it was a date, but he sees now that was naive. Still: “We clicked, Sid. Didn’t we?”

Sid licks his lips, quiet for a long moment. “You still have my phone number?”

“Yes.” Sid had given it to him during that dinner; Mat still hasn’t worked up the courage to use it.

“Text me,” Sid says. _“After_ the playoffs. Not during. After. Maybe we’ll see if we still...click.”

“Yeah?” Mat’s aware that his face is lighting up with a goofy smile, something that almost hurts it’s so big, and he probably looks like a teenage girl with her first date, but he can’t control the grin.

“Yeah.” Sid grabs his suit coat, takes a single step towards the door - and then turns around, strides over to where Mat is still sitting naked on the bed, cups his chin in one hand and kisses him. It’s a soft kiss, close-mouthed and a little dry, but it’s full of promise, and Mat’s insides turn to jelly, searing him from the inside even hotter than during the sex. “Talk soon,” he murmurs against Mat’s mouth, and then he’s gone, the door closing whisper-soft behind him.

Tito’s still awake when Mat gets back to the team hotel, and he gets accosted the second he walks through the door. “Holy shit, look at you,” he says. “You look like you’re in _love._ Was his ass really that good?”

Mat doesn’t tell Tito that Sid’s ass is only a very small part of what he wants from Sid. “He’s really that good, man.”

“Shit, you’re the luckiest guy in the world. You know that?”

Yeah, Mat thinks. That’s probably true.


End file.
